A Chill in the Air
by Dizzo
Summary: An expansion of my drabble 'Frosty Reception' - Dean learns the hard way about treating certain supernatural megastars with the respect they deserve. Rated T for a few naughty words.
1. Chapter 1

A CHILL IN THE AIR

An expansion of my drabble 'Frosty Reception' - Dean learns the hard way about treating certain supernatural megastars with the respect they deserve.

Usual rules apply: No spoilers, no particular connection to canon and rated T for a few naughty words.

Disclaimer: Don't own them; proof, if it were needed, that life just isn't fair!

_A/N This has been sitting on my hard drive in various degrees of completion for about three weeks now. Unfortunately my muse, the daft bint, has been moping around like a tit in a trance and saddled me with an infuriating brick wall of writers' block._

_Anyway, I've given the malingering little cow a good slap, and hopefully, we're back in business :)_

Chapter 1

Dean's grumpy; boy, is he grumpy ...

xxxxx

"C'mon baby," Dean was pleading now; "do it for me, huh, honey?"

He turned the Impala's engine over again, wincing as if it were he himself who was in pain as she groaned and spluttered miserably before shuddering into a forlorn silence once more.

Sam watched the tragic spectacle from a safe vantage point on the threshold of the charmless motel room which the Winchesters had been calling home since Christmas, well away from the colourful oaths and arm waving fury emanating from Dean as he trudged an increasingly frustrated path back and forth through softly crunching virgin snow between the stricken Impala's open hood and her drivers' seat.

Stomping his feet, Sam attempted in a vain to jolt some warmth back into his bloodless toes and blew into his red, stinging fingertips as he watched Dean slump once again into the drivers' seat, caressing the dashboard and whispering something that Sam couldn't hear, something clearly meant only for the Impala's consumption.

Dean took a deep breath and turned the key.

She tried, heaven knows she tried, but after thirty seconds of painful coughing, grinding and Dean's increasingly desperate encouragement, she sputtered miserably into a defeated silence.

Clambering out of the car, he threw his hands into the air in exasperation.

"She's too friggin' cold," he snorted; "she's not firing."

Sam sighed.

A series of hard, physical hunts had left the brothers tired, stiff and sore and as a result they had decided to head south to Florida for a few days rest and relaxation over Dean's birthday.

That was until last night when their current base of operations in Vermont had fallen under the arctic grip of a sudden ice storm and Sam reflected glumly that, right at this moment, the balmy, mild climes of Florida seemed a long, long way away.

The fact that a deterioration in the already bitter temperatures had been forecasted for a week hadn't seemed to register with Dean's sense of wounded indignation, and he continued to grumble and chunter sourly under his breath about the 'sonofabitch sucktastic weather'.

xxxxx

Wiping his hands on an oily rag, Dean reached over and irritably swatted a newly fallen layer of snow from his crippled baby's windscreen."Goddamn douchey Winter," he snorted, his breath riding on a curling wisp of vapour; "I hate freakin' winter an' I hate freakin cold an' I especially. Hate. Freakin'. Snow."

Sam allowed the tantrum to wash over him and shuddered, burrowing further down into his heavy jacket. He glanced up into the soupy grey clouds which swirled above them and wilted; it was patently clear there was a whole lot more snow, sleet, hail … whatever else the winter decided to throw at them, just ready and waiting to tumble down on top of them.

"Looks like this is set for the next few days," he sighed again.

Dean's eyes narrowed dangerously.

Sam could suddenly foresee a week cooped up in the smallest, crappiest motel room in the world with a frustrated and disappointed brother nursing a sick car and cursing a ruined birthday, and his life flashed briefly before his eyes.

In short, he could foresee a long, desperate week of unadulterated hell stretching out ahead of him, and his knees buckled in momentary panic.

As a damage limitation exercise, he floundered for a positive.

His eyes scanned the crystalline blanket that covered the ground, twinkling white with a brightness that stung the eyes, muffling every sound so that the world around them shrank to just the heavy crunch of Dean's boots.

Around him, bare trees, glistening with sparkling layers of silver stood bowed under the weight of their translucent burden eavesdropping on the brothers' conversation, and although he instantly regretted it, Sam couldn't help the words that tumbled out of his mouth.

"It's pretty, though;" he offered weakly.

Dean's scowl darkened as he stared in open mouthed disbelief at Sam. "Pretty? Are you insane? Freakin' pretty?"

Sam shrugged meekly; "Well, yeah … kinda … sort of …" He trailed off with Dean's glare burning into the side of his head and a sinking sense of wasted effort.

Dean turned with a dismissive grunt; "friggin' pretty …" he mumbled irritably, shaking his head in disbelief, and furiously swiping a dusting of snow from his jacket sleeve.

Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten; 'Dean; it's just a bit of snow. In the grand scheme of things the car not starting is no big deal.' Sam didn't say the words out loud because he rather liked being alive but, heck; Dean really did need to work on his sense of perspective.

xxxxx

Dean disappeared once again under his stricken baby's hood, and Sam heard the intermittent hiss of WD-40 being sprayed around, the clink of metal wrench upon metal engine and a continual stream of muttered invective.

Seconds later there came a loud clang followed by a furious yelp, and Dean erupted from the under the hood, tossing his wrench skywards and clutching a bleeding thumb. His language, increasing in volume and pitch, made the transition from colourful to psychedelic.

Glancing around furtively, Sam noticed a twitch behind the curtains from the next door room. "Dean," he hissed; "keep it down, people can hear you."

Dean's returning glare had 'do you really think I give a shit?' written all over it.

Shaking his head, Sam turned and trudged back into the room to find the first aid kit.

He paused, taking a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a migraine brewing.

It's name was Dean.

xxxxx

Sam was on his hands and knees retrieving the first aid kit from the depths of his duffel when the door flew open to a flurry of snow, and Dean stomped into the room, slamming it behind him.

He sucked on his bleeding thumb, grimacing at the coppery tang of his own blood, and stood, dripping melting snow over the floor.

"I friggin' give up," he snorted petulantly around his thumb; "I don't know what the friggin' problem is; need friggin' time to check everything, but it's too friggin cold out there, my friggin' fingers are goin' numb, and now it's started to friggin' snow again."

Sam rolled his eyes; "that's a lot of friggin' in one sentence." He pulled Dean's thumb out of his mouth with a wet 'pop' and led him over to the sink.

Dean irritably swatted Sam's hand away, and stared forlornly through the window at the blizzard which had descended with startling suddenness.

"I can' believe I'm gonna be stuck here in this goddamned freakin' gulag for my birthday," Dean moaned as he ran his bleeding thumb under the tap; "my baby's sick, and a sonofabitch blizzard has decided to rock up an' park it's ass on top of us so we can't even get out for some decent chow."

Sam passed him a towel and a band-aid. He nodded sympathetically; "the forecasters reckon this is set for the next couple of days at least."

A gloomy silence settled over the brothers as they stood and stared out of the window at the misty grey flurries which whipped and swirled around them, coating the stricken Impala with a thick blanket of sparkling white.

"Yep, old Jack Frost sure is hard at work out there," Sam muttered absently.

"Yeah, well 'old Jack Frost' can go screw himself," Dean snorted contemptuously; "the freaky faerie douchebag's interfered with my baby and spoiled my birthday, so he can take his friggin' 'pretty' snow and his crappy ice and his sparkly douchewad snowflakes and he can stick them up his spiky blue ass where the sun don't friggin' shine."

Sam suppressed a laugh.

"Perhaps we should gank the sonofabitch," Dean grinned wickedly, still staring through the window at the worsening storm; "that'd be so cool."

"You can't gank Jack Frost," Sam replied incredulously.

"Why?"

"Well, one, if you did, there would be no more Winters," Sam replied.

"And that would be a bad thing … why exactly?" Dean turned and took up his best arms-folded-across-puffed-out-chest argumentative posture.

Sam hesitated in thought; okay, that was a fair question. He ploughed on regardless.

"And two, Jack Frost isn't real, he's just a figure of speech, a fictitious personification of Winter, an allegory, a fable, a fairytale; you can't gank something that doesn't exist."

Dean's lip curled; "well he might be a figure of speech, a fictional friggin' perspiration of whatever the crap you were just talkin' about, but he's still a full-on gold-plated dick."

Sam rubbed his forehead. Yup, definitely a migraine …

xxxxx

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

A CHILL IN THE AIR

Chapter 2

Things aren't getting better for our favourite brothers

xxxxx

Sam turned slowly from the window clutching his aching head.

He was prone to headaches, and he knew that each one he suffered had it's own particular signature. The stabbing pains behind the eyes from looking too long at the laptop screen, the throbbing tightness across the crown that radiated down the back of his neck from when he was worried or under pressure and then there was this one; the classic Dean-being-a-moron-induced skewer through the temples.

He flinched, squinting as a sparkling flash of blue erupted across his field of vision.

Great, thanks Dean; a goddamn migraine. That was just the totally crap cherry on this totally crap cake of a day.

He reached into the first aid kit and pulled out a box of aspirins, dry swallowing three of them.

Watching as Dean stood, still muttering darkly to himself and glaring venomously through the window at the icy armageddon which billowed and swirled around them; he laid back on his bed.

"Can you keep the cussing down for a bit?" he murmured; "I got a headache, gonna take a siesta."

That was enough to prompt Dean to tear himself away from the window; first baby's sick, now Sammy. Could this day possibly get any worse?

"'Kay Sammy," he mumbled glumly, "take it easy."

Wandering across the room, Dean squatted down in front of the refrigerator in the hopeful belief that finding something half decent to eat would make this godforsaken shitpile of a day better. He perused the refrigerator's meagre contents at length, following up with a thorough investigation of the contents of the kitchenette cupboards.

Okay, wrong again Winchester; day is out to get you. Period.

xxxxx

It was almost exactly two hours before Sam's eyes fluttered open, and he was immediately relieved to note that the aspirins had done their sterling work; his headache had left the room; good riddance to it.

Blinking blearily he sat up, kneading stiff shoulders. His brow furrowed in puzzled concern as he rubbed a palm across the back of his neck, and felt a slick film of perspiration coating his skin. Still fuddled with sleep he sat staring at his wet palm as he tried to make out whether he was feverish or whether he was just hot; very hot.

Freakin' roasting in fact.

He stood up slowly, and stretched high enough for his fingertips to brush the ceiling, yawning long and wide, then slumped wearily back onto the bed; those same fingertips pulling at the sweat-dampened T shirt which clung clammily to his back.

Behind him a voice spoke up.

"Hey, Florence."

Sam turned with a start. His sleep-muzzed mind had been so distracted trying to work out why he felt like he was simmering over a low heat, he'd all but forgotten Dean was there.

Dean was half sitting, half laying, sprawled on his bed; one hand submerged in a family sized bag of chips, the other clutching a well-thumbed paperback book. Sam couldn't see the title, but judging by the cover picture of a skull with a giant, blood-streaked centipede slithering out from one eye socket, he guessed it wasn't particularly classic high literature.

"Hmmmm, yeah; hi," Sam muttered; scratching his head, still skimming the edge of his deep sleep.

"Headache better?" Dean asked, his matter-of-fact tone doing a poor job in masking his concern.

Sam yawned, stretching again; "yeah, all gone."

"Good, your turn to make the coffee then," Dean replied, returning his attention to his book; "could do with a hot drink."

Sam stared at his brother incredulously.

"Dude, how the hell can you even think about drinking something hot?" he asked; "it's like a freakin' sauna in here."

He wandered over to the thermostat on the wall and grimaced when he saw it was switched to it's highest setting.

His hand moved up to the little dial.

Dean sat up with a jolt; "don't touch it," he snapped; "I jus' cranked it up, it was freakin' freezing in here earlier."

Sam stared open mouthed at him; "well it's not any more," he replied, " I'm sweatin' like a pig here."

Dean's nose wrinkled in disgust. "TMI, dude," he snorted; "must just be you and your disgusting hot, sweaty carcass then, 'cos I'm still friggin' cold."

Sam shook his head in disbelief, and set about making Dean's coffee, stopping off at the refrigerator to retrieve some orange juice.

"Have you eaten?" He asked absently.

"Well," Dean put his book down; "I partook of what culinary delights I could find in our stash, and I found these Cheetos, some bread that only had green fur down one side, and a bit of cheese that smelt like your feet."

"Oh well, at least you've had your Penicillin," Sam replied casually, as he gulped down the deliciously cool juice; "you won't get sick then."

The violent shiver that racked Dean's body seemed to throw that remark back in Sam's face.

Turning back to the kettle as he heard it boil, Sam flinched as another sapphire bright burst of intense blue flickered across the corner of his eye.

He blinked; "crap, perhaps that migraine is still brewing."

He turned with the coffee, only to see Dean sitting on the side of the bed, tugging a hoodie over his head.

"You gotta be joking," he gaped, cringing as he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine.

"S' friggin cold," Dean grumbled as he pulled on the fleece hoodie and burrowed into it, settling back down on the bed and making eager grabby hands towards the hot drink.

"Never mind fussin' over me, what about you?" Dean attempted to turn Sam's focus away from him; "you look a bit flushed; you sure you're not sick?"

"I look 'a bit flushed' because you've got the thermostat turned up to, like, 'earth's core' man; it's about a zillion degrees in here."

Dean rolled his eyes; "stow the smart comments bitch, I reckon you're comin' down with something."

Taking a sip of his coffee, Dean savoured the long, mellow aftertaste of the boiling liquid as he suppressed another shiver.

xxxxx

Night fell.

Sam's watch beeped two o'clock in the morning as he lay in bed, staring through the darkness.

Lost in thought, he squinted through the shadows at the burrowed lump under the quilt on Dean's bed and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. All day, Dean had complained about being cold while Sam had spent the whole day wilting in sub-tropical heat.

He didn't feel like he was coming down with something. His headache from earlier had faded away, and he was pretty sure he felt hot because the room was, well, hot. He was exhibiting no other signs to indicate anything was wrong in any way shape or form.

Dean, on the other hand, had to be coming down with something, Sam was sure of it.

Sitting in temperatures generally associated with darkest Africa, wrapped in a fleece hoodie and two pairs of socks, hugging a hot drink and complaining that you're so cold you can't feel your nose was not the behaviour of a healthy person.

He sighed, wearily running through the contents of the first aid kit in his head. He was pretty sure they'd stocked up on Tylenol and Nyquil in their last stopover. He made a mental note to double check in the morning.

The springs in Dean's bed squeaked as it's occupant shifted, dragging the quilt with him so that he was wrapped even tighter in it, and Sam watched silently through the gloom as Dean stilled with a soft grunt.

Only a few minutes passed before Sam himself began to feel the drag of sleep, and he willingly succumbed. He would need all his energy for what would undoubtedly be a trying couple of days ahead.

A brilliant, glimmering streak of cerulean crackled briefly in front of his darkening eyes before sleep took him.

xxxxx

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

A CHILL IN THE AIR

Chapter 3

Sam starts to take stock of Dean's situation.

xxxxx

The first cloud-dampened light of day crept over the windowsill and nudged Sam awake. He stretched long and slow and yawned, kicking off the thin, sweat-dampened sheet which was knotted around his legs.

Laying on his back, he panted in the stale spongy air.

Their poor overworked heater had been burning like a furnace all night, and the room was unbearably hot; it took every ounce of Sam's self-control not to stumble out of bed and throw the door open to welcome the arctic blast that awaited him outside.

He had to check on Dean first.

Rolling over, he took two long gulps of stewed, lukewarm water from a glass on his nightstand and looked over his glass at Dean's bed, noting that all he could see was a large lump burrowed deep under the quilt.

"Hey Dean?" he called quietly.

No response was forthcoming.

He tried again, this time, louder; a little more forceful.

"Dean."

This time he could see slight movements under the quilt, a regular, rhythmic quivering.

He swung his legs off the bed and padded across the room to check all was okay. Normally, Sam wouldn't even have considered disturbing Dean when his quilt was animated. He had once unwittingly done so when he was a curious ten-year-old and was now, accordingly, psychologically scarred for life. But in this case, he considered that his concern from yesterday warranted the risk of a rude awakening for Dean and his own further mental trauma.

As he stood over Dean's bed, all that was visible of Dean, completely swaddled within a twitching cocoon of rolled quilt, was the unruly cowlick that encircled his crown.

Sam looked down fondly at the tiny bare spot at the eye of the spiky whorl and laid a warm palm over it.

"Dean, how you doin?"

Sam suddenly realised with horror that the movements he could see from within the quilt was a continuous shivering.

Dean rolled over, and Sam's heart froze as Dean shrugged the quilt back, and looked up at him.

His hooded, glassy eyes stared out of a bloodless face, pallid and grey as the blanket of cloud tumbling across the sky above them.

"S-s-sammy, s-s-s-o co-o-ld," he whispered through chattering teeth; "hur's so m-much ... sh-shiv'rin' … can' g-g-get warm."

Sam frowned in concern, reaching under Dean's quilt and grasped his hand. It felt like ice.

"Holy crap, Dean," Sam recoiled at his brother's icy touch; "what the hell's going on?"

He stumbled backwards across the room and reached for the first aid kit, tipping it upside down on his bed in a panicked search for the thermometer.

Thermometer in hand, he knelt back down beside Dean's bed, " just gonna check your temp bro'."

Dean's nod was indiscernible from his incessant shivering; "'k-kay," he mumbled without lifting his head from the pillow.

Sam gently slipped the thermometer between Dean's lips; "take it easy, dude, we'll get this fixed."

He timed a minute, and checked the mercury.

Ninety five degrees.

"Ninety-five?" he gasped; "hell, Dean that's borderline hypothermic."

Sam stared nonplussed at the thermometer and then at the wan face that stared up at him.

The brothers were used to elevated temperatures; in the life they led, a fever caused by an infected wound or a dose of flu was commonplace; nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Even hypothermia, although not a condition they had encountered often, was something understandable that they could deal with.

But one thing Sam had never encountered was a case of hypothermia in a room that was heated like a furnace; he was completely baffled.

His head spun as he pulled his own massive hoodie around Dean's shoulders, bundling him up tightly, cringing as he felt the desperate, exhausted shivering through the three layers of clothing Dean was now wearing.

"Gonna run you a hot bath," soothed Sam.

Dean nodded weakly, and pulled his knees up to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible as he burrowed back into the rumpled quilt.

xxxxx

In the bathroom Sam set about running the bath and his mind drifted as he felt the rising steam increasing the flush of perspiration across his face.

This wasn't right; this was so not right.

If you it was cold, you were cold, then you got colder. If it was hot, like it was in this damn room; Sam cringed at the musk of sweat that was rising off his overheating body, you just got hotter. You did not get cold, and then colder. It just went totally against the natural order of things.

And that meant it had to be supernatural. Didn't it?

But supernatural or not, if Dean just kept getting colder, his body would shut down and he would die. Damn this sonofabitch ice storm closing the roads; how the hell would Sam be able to get Dean to the hospital if he needed to?

Leaning against the white tiled walls, he closed his eyes and lost himself in the sound of the gushing, tumbling water as it echoed around the room.

Splashing.

Gurgling.

Giggling.

Sam's eyes snapped open as he jolted back into awareness.

Giggling?

He turned the water off and listened intently; could he have imagined it?

The faintest echo of a reedy, sharp giggle; thin and haunting and malevolent. He knew the sound wasn't coming from Dean; what the hell did Dean have to laugh about right now? It didn't even sound anything like his brother's rich mellow laughter.

As his eyes scanned the room, he caught glistening flashes of dazzling blue playing amongst the ripples of the bathwater, and a puzzled frown furrowed his brow. What in the name of God was going on?

Sam wished he was imagining it. But deep inside, he knew he wasn't.

xxxxx

Stepping back into the room, Sam returned to find Dean sitting quiet and empty eyed on the bed, burrowed into a mass of thick clothing and the quilt; his spirit dulled by exhaustion and the relentless cold. His teeth were chattering so hard, Sam's own teeth ached in sympathy.

"C'mon Dean," he encouraged gently; "all ready."

He helped Dean up, and together they made a slow and shaky progress to the bathroom; where Dean stood compliantly and allowed Sam to carefully unwrap him, stripping the layers of insulation away from him. Sam fought the urge to cringe at the deathly chill of Dean's bare skin, the gooseflesh that had erupted across it, and how his muscles flickered and twitched as the violent shivers continued to assault his system without mercy.

Sam wrapped an arm across Dean's bare back and guided him toward the steaming tub. "Here we go, dude, nice warm bath for you," he smiled; "if you don't feel any better soon, we'll call a taxi and head down to the ER as soon as the roads reopen, then we can get you checked out."

He considered that if it was something supernatural, going to ER would achieve entirely squat; but he knew he had to coax Dean to stay positive through this misery. "It's probably just some chill or virus or something," he lied.

Dean nodded; "s-s-sucks, S'mmy," he croaked miserably.

He leaned heavily against Sam, gripping his arm with icy fingers as he gingerly stepped over the side of the bath, and lowered himself into the soothingly hot water.

But, as it closed around his waist he let out a breathless yelp of pained shock, and lunged wildly toward Sam, desperately trying to clamber out of the bath.

Swiftly reaching out in response, Sam grasped his brother urgently, lifting him bodily out of the tub and letting out his own shocked gasp as his arms entered the bath water.

Suddenly it was bitterly, icy cold.

"S'okay Dean, s'okay;" Sam reassured desperately, holding Dean as close as he was physically able, trying to transfer some much-needed body heat, but barely able to manage the violent tremors which racked his brother's wet, freezing body.

"S-s'mmy, wha's h-h-p'nin'?" Dean mumbled into his chest.

As he looked over the Dean's shoulder, he heard that chilling giggle again, accompanied by a flash of blue reflected in the mirror in front of him.

"I don't know dude," Sam responded; "but I'm sure as hell gonna find out."

xxxxx

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

A CHILL IN THE AIR

Oh, bog off real life ... why do you expect me to bugger about and EARN the salary I'm paid, when all I want to do is be left alone to write fanfic ... hey ho! *sighs*

Chapter 4

xxxxx

Sam held his brother tightly, wrapping him in the biggest towel he could find and trying to mutter soothing reassurances, even though he was sure that Dean either couldn't hear or wasn't even aware that he was speaking.

Dean's shivering was becoming harsher, more intense, more painful; Sam could barely maintain a hold on him. "S'mmy … hur's so much … so cold … so cold …" the words had become a desperate despairing mantra. All that Dean could think, all that he could voice was the terrible pervading chill that was slowly consuming him.

Without even checking that he was fully dry, Sam half-dragged, half-carried Dean back into the main room and laid him down on the bed, pulling every scrap of linen that he could find on both beds over him.

Sam could see no other option; he knew Dean would hate him for it, but he didn't hesitate. Despite the lung-crushing, oppressive heat in the room, he lifted the crumpled mess of bedlinen and crawled under it, gathering Dean in as close as he could; wrapping him in long warm arms, and worming in as tight as he could so that there was not a scrap of space between Dean's back and Sam's warm chest.

The chill permeating Sam's body from his brother's suffering form pressed against him was overwhelming; a glacial cold radiated through his chest and he could feel himself starting to shiver. It was then the awful truth dawned; he wasn't transferring his body heat to Dean. Dean's chill was leeching into him and draining his own warmth.

He abruptly sat up. This just was not normal or natural. Therefore, Sam reflected angrily, it had to be supernatural; there could be no other rational explanation. He almost snorted with laughter at the cruel irony of his conclusion; how could anything supernatural possibly be described as rational? Is this how screwed-up their life had become?

The sound of that terrible teasing laughter that he still wasn't quite sure he had heard earlier rang in his ears, mocking and haunting him.

Rational be damned.

xxxxx

Sam wasn't stupid. He knew hypothermia was no joke, and he knew there was only one logical outcome to severe and prolonged hypothermia. He had to try to figure out what this problem was, what had caused it, and most importantly; how to stop it.

However, despite his best intentions, he couldn't do that all the while he was trying to care for his desperately sick brother.

As he sat, his mind whirling hopelessly, he looked up out of the window. The storm had finally abated, leaving the snow-coated world outside still and soundless, bathed in monochrome shades of grey and white.

Sam dared to hope there was a chance the roads would be open again. That meant he could get Dean to a hospital. Could they help? Sam somehow doubted it, but at least their care would free Sam up to concentrate on investigating a cause and, he hoped more desperately than anything he had ever hoped for anything before, a cure.

He tucked the bedclothes tighter around Dean in a futile gesture of support; "I'm going outside to try to get you some help, dude;" he laid a warm palm over Dean's scalp, cringing at how unhealthily cool it felt.

Dean's weak nod of acknowledgement was lost in another violent tremor.

Cautiously opening the door, Sam stepped over the threshold into knee-deep snow. The bitter chill of the outside world compared to the sweaty, airless heat of their room hit him like a wall of glass, and gasped for breath as he waded clumsily through the crystalline drifts until he reached the motel's brightly-lit reception.

xxxxx

He stumbled through the glass doors and crossed the small reception area in one desperate stride.

"My brother's really sick," passing over any social niceties, he blurted the words out to the young, bored-looking receptionist who stood behind the desk; "I need to get him to the hospital soon as possible. I know the road's been closed, is there any way I can get him there?" He hesitated, pleading now; "please, you gotta help me; he's really, really sick."

The receptionist's mouth dropped slightly and she stared at him in genuine horror. She would have welcomed any diversion from the tedium of a day standing behind the desk of a near-deserted hotel cut off from civilisation by winter's fury. However, she would have preferred a diversion that didn't involve a frantic giant looming over her panicking about a dying brother. That's all she needed; one of the guests kicking it on her shift.

"As far as I know the road is still closed," she replied swiftly and apologetically; "but I'll call Doctor Benson. He's our on-call medic and only lives a block from here; he can come and check things out. If he thinks your brother needs the hospital, I'm sure he can take you there; he's got an SUV just for circumstances like this."

She snatched up the phone, and Sam was momentarily buoyed by her sense of urgency.

xxxxx

The knock on the door to the Winchesters' room was swift, heavy and very welcome. On hearing it, Sam yanked the door open and acknowledged the owner of the knock; a stout, elderly man, presumably Doctor Benson judging by his small black bag, standing huddled on the doorstep. The man's nose wrinkled as the powerful musk of perspiration which hung in the room's thick, stale air suddenly assaulted his nose.

He stepped past Sam into the room, and nodded a brief but polite greeting.

Making every attempt to explain the situation to the good Doctor, Sam knew full well that whatever he told the poor man would make absolutely no sense at all.

"He's so cold," he rambled frantically; "and nothing I do can warm him up. I've had the heating on full for almost two days, I've made hot drinks, hot baths, and he's still freezing." Sam could hear the pitch of his voice rising as he became more and more agitated; "and he's just getting colder," he added fearfully.

Doc Benson eyed Sam over the top of his bifocals, watching as Sam squirmed awkwardly under his watery ice-blue gaze, babbling complete nonsense. He knew the score; no doubt these two young bucks had been up to some kind of horseplay which had left Dean in this sorry state, and the brother didn't want any trouble. His face warmed into a sympathetic smile; he'd been a young man himself once.

"Okey dokey," he began; "let's see what we can find, shall we?"

He stood over Dean's bed. "Okey dokey, young man," he murmured kindly; "lets take a look at you."

Sam watched as Benson gently pulled back the knot of bedclothes around Dean far enough to take his patient's hand. Sam also saw his rheumy eyes widen behind his thick glasses as he took in a sharp breath at how deathly, icy cold the clenched, grey hand was.

Benson's demeanour suddenly took on a sense of urgency. Fishing in his bag, he hauled out a stethoscope and a thermometer, and embarked on a brief but thorough examination of his patient.

He looked up at Sam.

"Temperature's 93.5," he announced solemnly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sam gasped. "It's-it's gone down," he stammered; "it was 95 when I took it a few hours ago."

"I don't understand this;" the Doctor looked up at Sam, puzzled concern written across his face; "he's at a stage of hypothermia where his body should be starting to close down. I would expect him to be losing consciousness, his bodily functions slowing down to critical levels."

Sam nodded hesitantly; if that's what 'should' be happening, surely it can't be worse?

"The thing is," Benson reflected, packing his equipment away; "I accept he's not very lucid right now, but I put that down to the intense discomfort he's suffering at the moment. He's also completely conscious, and his heartbeat and pulse are almost normal; in fact they're slightly elevated – again due to the discomfort he's suffering, I would say."

He crouched down beside his patient, wincing as his knees made a sound like splintering wood; "okey-dokey Dean, I'm going to get you straight to the hospital," he spoke quietly and slowly, his tone gentle and reassuring; "you are entering severe hypothermia although I have to say I've never seen it manifest this way, but we need to get you warmed up, and a hospital is the best place to do it."

Dean looked up at the Doctor's face through glassy, unfocussed eyes, which flickered across the room to latch onto Sam. He made no acknowledgement of the doctor's words, his frigid lips could no longer form the words.

xxxxx

Responding without hesitation to the doctor's words, Sam bundled Dean up in the warmest clothes he could find and wrapped him in a blanket for the brief transfer to the Doctor's smart black SUV which stood waiting across the parking lot, sunk up to it's footplates in snow.

Instinctively knowing Dean was no longer capable of walking, he lifted him into his arms, cringing at the long groan Dean let out at the sudden movement and tottered toward the door, carrying his precious burden out into the freezing winter.

Even through the thick blanket, the sudden cold shock tore through Dean like the jaws of a wild animal, and he convulsed rigidly against Sam's chest.

Sam picked his way with infinite care, stumbling under the bone-cold, quaking weight he carried through the knee-deep snow, and casting a regretful glance at the half buried Impala as she sat helplessly immobile, half buried under a twinkling bank of snow. His relief was palpable as he approached the gleaming black SUV, with Doctor Benson standing beside it, holding a welcoming door open for him.

As he approached the car, a sharp breeze whipped up, flinging the white powder into a swirling frenzy around him; stinging his face, blinding and unbalancing him.

Not to be deterred, Sam lowered his head and plunged forward regardless, cutting through the flying ice-crystals which lashed and flailed around him like a living swarm, until he reached the car. He leaned forward to gently load Dean into the back seat, bundling him up tight where the blanket had worked loose and ensuring he was securely strapped in.

Once he was satisfied that Dean was safe and comfortable, insofar as that was possible, he stepped back from the car, and arched into a long stretch in an attempt to unknot his abused back.

Sam was glad he wasn't called upon to carry his brother often; Dean was one goddamned heavy armload. A rigidly cold, shivering Dean was an unyielding and painfully bruising goddamn heavy armload, and Sam figured that Dean's current predicament wasn't going to be helped none by having his brother in traction with a scrambled spine.

He stretched again just to be sure as he made his way round the back of the car.

Stumbling through the deepening drifts, Sam caught a sudden and familiar flash of blue flicker and sparkle across the car's gleaming black paintwork, but this time, there was something else; something more.

The hazy image that stared back at him from within the SUV's black flank was insubstantial, ebbing and flowing as if reflected in water.

It radiated malice, and Sam felt himself shudder involuntarily as the sheer malevolence that poured off of it drilled into his soul, filling him with a stone-cold, icy dread.

It was a face; crystalline blue, sharply thin and cruelly sinister.

As he stood helpless, mesmerised by the small glimmering eyes, as deep and as black as the spite in its callous smirk, Sam knew then what was ailing Dean.

And he also knew then that Dean was beyond any medical help.

xxxxx

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

A CHILL IN THE AIR

Chapter 5

Sam enlists help from a familiar source.

xxxxx

Pacing up and down the hospital's brightly lit corridor like a caged animal, Sam let out a sigh of relief as his phone eventually picked up.

"Sam?" the gruff voice on the other end of the line huffed breathlessly, suggesting that Bobby had had to run to catch the call.

"Oh thank God," croaked Sam; "Bobby please, how the hell do I kill Jack Frost?"

There was a long moment of hesitation between the two men.

"Well, it sure beats 'Hiya Bobby, how ya doin?'"

Sam stopped pacing momentarily and shook his head in resignation, almost managing to rustle up a wry smile; "Sorry Bobby," he sighed; "but we need some help. I'm at the central hospital in Vermont and Dean's in a real bad way."

Sam could practically feel the older man bristle at his words.

"What's happened?" The question was asked cautiously, almost as if Bobby was scared to hear the answer.

Sam took a deep breath in an attempt to compose himself. "I think Dean's pissed off Jack Frost," he stated quietly, well aware that he was probably about to embark on the weirdest conversation he was ever likely to have.

"Well, what? … wh-who? … how?"

Sam dropped heavily into a chair and began to explain the chain of events that led them to this point; Dean's fury at the sudden ice-storm, the crippled Impala, Dean's tirade at their chilly nemesis, Sam's blue visions, Dean's sudden inexplicable and unstoppable temperature drop, and finally their terrible dash through a snowbound armageddon which tested the aged Doctor Benson and his fine, shiny SUV to their limits.

Bobby listened without interrupting to every word the younger man said.

"And so, we ended up here," Sam began to conclude; "when we arrived, they took his temperature; it's gone down even more to 89, and it's not showing any signs of stopping there." Sam could hear himself start to gabble, but couldn't stop; "he should be in a coma Bobby; his body should be shutting down through massive hypothermia, but he's not. He's wide awake, shivering uncontrollably and in agony, it looks like this vindictive blue dick wants him to feel every joyous moment of slowly freezing to death."

"Dammit to hell …" Bobby sighed. It seemed to fit the moment in the absence of anything more constructive.

"They tried putting him on a heated IV, but the bag froze the minute they attached it to the canula," Sam explained wearily; "they put hot water bottles around him, but they froze up as well."

There was silence on the end of the phone and Sam knew the wheels would be turning frantically in Bobby's head.

"The medics haven't got a clue – well, why would they? I don't s'pose they teach supernatural curses at med school. All they've been able to do is give him a strong sedative so he won't be in pain any more."

Eventually Bobby found his tongue; "what'ya found?"

"Bobby, I don't know what to do, Sam pleaded; "I've been checking the internet, but all I can find on Jack Frost is a bunch of kids fairytale crap."

There was another pause.

"Jack frost?" Bobby confirmed smartly, as if his mind was still trying to digest Sam's first question; "Jack Frost as in fluffy snowflakes, frost on window panes, cold, red noses …"

"S'gottabe," Sam replied, urgency muddling his words; "Dean badmouthing the blue freak yesterday, my visions and Dean's symptoms, what else could it possibly be?" He continued; "I've had three medics in the last hour tell me that Dean's condition is physically impossible, how can that be anything but supernatural?"

Somehow, Sam heard Bobby's nod of agreement.

"That face Bobby," Sam shuddered at the thought; "you should have seen it; vindictive doesn't start to describe it. It was just like if you gave malice and spite a face, and painted it blue, that's what it would look like."

"All this sugary shit I've been reading on the internet is complete trash," he sighed.

"Okay Son," Bobby took a deep breath as he spoke; "gotta say this is a new one on me!"

"Me too," agreed Sam, "whatever next? I'll end up getting pasted by the sugar plum fairy?"

Bobby snorted a humourless laugh; "you stay there, help ya brother. I'll get straight onto it an' call ya back as soon as I've got something."

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, partly from relief, partly from fear of what he was going to find when he walked back into Dean's room.

"Thanks Bobby," he murmured.

There was a click as the line closed the other end, and Sam slipped his phone back into his pocket.

xxxxx

He carefully closed the door to Dean's room behind him, and took up his usual seat by the bed.

Dean lay on the bed, his drug-glazed eyes half-closed, swaddled in blankets which, although originally heated, were now as chill as a winters day. Despite the sedative, his ivory-pale face was still taut with discomfort, and Sam could still see a faint trembling racking his body.

He pressed the back of his fingers against Dean's cheek and cringed; his skin was cold as marble.

"Hey dude, hang in there," he whispered, hoping desperately that Dean could hear him; "Bobby's on the case, we'll get this fixed - somehow."

Dean's numb, grey lips moved fractionally as if he was trying to say something but no sound came.

Sam lost track of time as he sat hour after hour, through daylight and falling darkness, watching over his brother; trying with all his might to offer reassurance and comfort when he, himself was very slowly unravelling inch by inch.

Dean's unseeing, glazed eyes stared glassily from under lashes lowered by the drugs coursing through him.

The constant shiverling was always there; an endless and debilitating vibration under Sam's fingertips; the only sound in the room was the quiet rattle of chattering teeth, interrupted by violent shudders which gripped Dean's whole body, snapping him into a sudden and painful rigor, but through it all Sam's steadfast presence remained unfaltering, a reassuring, familiar touch amongst the madness and the endless, unbearable cold.

Doctors came and went. They poked and prodded, tutted and drew in long breaths. They talked about bringing in the CDC; they talked about heated blood transfusions; they talked about a load of crap as far as Sam was concerned.

Dean's heart was listened to by innumerable ears, his pulse measured from just about every point on his body that Sam was aware contained a pulse (and a few others he wasn't), his temperature monitored and plotted on a graph showing an inexplicable and depressing downward gradient.

Through it all, Sam would have been prepared to swear there was a morbidly curious glee among the learned Doctors as they cogitated and puzzled over their mysterious patient.

Nurses came and went with more hot water bottles, warm blankets, warm drinks, and warm smiles.

But nothing could offer a hint of relief. Nothing warm could touch Dean's skin before it cooled to near freezing level instantaneously. Even Sam, maintaining his comforting touch, had begun to check his hand at regular intervals with frostbite in mind.

xxxxx

Sam couldn't leap up quickly enough when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

"Bobby?" he lowered his voice to a whisper so as not to disturb Dean who, pumped full of a fresh dose of sedative, had finally fallen into an uneasy, tortured slumber.

"Hey Sam," the voice sounded weary, and Sam realised it was the middle of the night, some twelve hours since his call to Bobby this morning, and he was willing to bet the older man had worked without a rest or any refreshment since then.

"Okay," Bobby began, "found out what I can. Our friend Jack Frost is what you or I would call a faerie; a damned powerful one."

"Faerie?" Sam repeated, his voice loaded with disbelief.

"Don' know too much about faeries, never dealt with them - hardly anyone has," Bobby explained, "they're elemental beings, mysterious and impulsive and like nature, they can good or bad, gentle or violent, kind or cruel."

"A goddamn faerie has done all this?" Sam's mind still hadn't quite caught up.

"Personally," Bobby added; "I think they're friggin' vindictive, sly, nasty little sonsofbitches. Ain't never heard nothin' but trouble about 'em."

"Yeah," Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, glancing down through eyes watering with fatigue at Dean who had just succumbed to a fit of shivering so strong the bed frame creaked. "I get that."

He took a deep breath as his mind fought to process what he had just been told.

"I couldn't find anything about Jack Frost specifically," Bobby continued; "except that he's what's called a Winter Sprite. The lore describes them as creative, proud and capricious."

"Capricious?" Sam frowned, frustrated at his rapidly diminishing brain power.

"Temperamental," Bobby replied succinctly; "up their own ass. Jus' cause they can create a few friggin'snowflakes they think they're cat's whiskers and one thing they don't appreciate is being insulted."

"Yeah, I get that too," Sam replied, glancing round again at his suffering brother.

"So," he sighed; "how do we waste the sonofabitch?"

"Yeah, well this is where it gets complicated," Bobby replied, sounding weary again; "we don't; there's no proven, theorised or anecdotal way for a human to kill a faerie, but …"

"But we've got to help Dean," Sam pleaded, cutting in.

"But," Bobby repeated sternly, "there are plenty of ways to repel them, and fend them off."

Sam nodded dumbly; "okay, I'm listening."

"I've been talkin' to an old contact of mine, someone who knows a lot about this sort of stuff; he's a seventh son of a seventh son."

"Aren't they supposed to have some kind of magical powers?" Sam mused idly.

"Not supposed to," corrected Bobby, "do."

"Specifically, magical powers like the ability to commune with supernatural beings," he added.

"Supernatural beings - like faeries?" Sam asked hopefully.

"Exactly," Bobby replied.

There was a brief pause.

"So what ya got?" Sam asked.

"Well," Bobby began; "Winter Sprites are powerful things an' there's only one thing strong enough to see 'em off, and it does so on a regular basis."

A knot of hope tightened in Sam's chest; "what?" he asked.

Bobby hesitated before answering and when the answer came it was the last thing Sam expected to hear, and yet at the same time it was painfully obvious.

"Springtime."

xxxxx

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

A CHILL IN THE AIR

Chapter 6

Sam learns more of what Bobby has in mind.

xxxxx

Sam stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at his phone in bemused silence; what seemed like forever passed in awkward silence before he regained the power of speech.

"Sp-springtime?" he spluttered, barely able to form the word; "are you freakin' insane?"

"Sam … if …" Bobby stumbled over the words in his rush to get them out.

"We can't wait for goddamn springtime," Sam hissed furiously, "Dean isn't going to last the week if we don't fix this."

"If you'll let me finish …" Bobby repeated firmly, "springtime is the only thing that is able to see off winter, so my contact is making me up a 'springtime shield' for Dean."

"Springtime shield?" Sam repeated helplessly, pinching the bridge of his nose as his head began to pound; "Bobby, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Yeah; well, it's more of an elixir," Bobby began; "it's made up of the essence of apple blossom, crocus pollen, the rising sap of a deciduous tree, the blood of a new-born lamb, and raindrops from an April shower. We give Dean this stuff to drink and, according to my pal, Jack friggin' Frost won't be able to get his icy mitts anywhere near him.

Sam considered what Bobby was saying. It sorta made sense in a wall-buttingly crazy kind of way.

"Dean would literally become poison to him," Bobby finished triumphantly.

Sam liked the sound of that; "will Dean recover?"

"That I don't know son; no-one does," Bobby sighed. "I don't know if he's too far gone; it's not like this is a run-of-the-mill procedure, so far as I know it's never been done before - this is all theory. All we can do is try it and see what happens."

Sam scraped and hand shakily through his fringe, and sucked in a deep breath; "thanks Bobby, that sounds like the best option we've got."

"Kid, it's the only option we've got," Bobby replied wearily; "as soon as I've got the mixture, I'll head straight over with it."

"Thanks Bobby," Sam muttered, hesitating before he hung up the call; "an' look, I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"Already forgotten," Bobby responded economically; "see ya soon."

xxxxx

Dean drifted woozily, floating in a desperate, frigid nightmare.

His entire body was so unbearably cold, he couldn't think, he couldn't move. He couldn't speak, all he could do was feel. Feel his skin; tight, sore, raised by the relentless chill into hypersensitive gooseflesh. Feel the pain of every muscle in his body cramping, contracting fiercely against the punishing cold. Feel the exhaustion which consumed him, crushing him with a leaden fatigue as his body shivered and shuddered relentlessly, endlessly.

He had forgotten what it was like to feel warmth; a warm touch, the warmth of his own body, warm air on his face.

His extremities burned. Icy cold fingers, toes, nose, ears; all raw and stinging, blazing with the pain of a retreating blood supply.

Even Sam's touch, usually so comforting and so reassuring, seared his skin like the bite of ice.

There was to be no relief, no respite; no end to the torment until the end.

Dean had given up the fight, and he longed for the end; he just hoped now that it would come quickly.

xxxxx

As the hours passed, Sam drifted in and out of a restless, haunted sleep.

In his waking moments, all he could do was sit and watch Dean as he lay, fretting and shivering miserably, his face set in a grimace of pain; surrounded by uselessly frozen, abandoned drip-bags which hung forlornly around him like deflated balloons after a party. Even in darkness he looked as pale and bloodless as a living death.

Still wrapped tightly in blankets, Dean's entire body was completely devoid of any trace of warmth; even from his seat beside the bed, Sam shuddered as he could feel the bone-chilling cold which radiated from his brother.

Sam was jolted out of his musings by the vibration of his phone in his pocket.

"Hey Bobby," he replied wearily.

"Jus' touched down at Burlington Airport," Bobby's gruff voice growled across the phone line; "pickin' up a cab. I'll be with ya soon."

"Great, thanks Bobby," Sam's voice dropped to a whisper as Dean let out a pained moan.

"I got the stuff," Bobby added, anxious to reassure the younger man.

Sam mustered a watery smile.

"Thanks Bobby."

xxxxx

Sam had never been so pleased to see anyone as he was when Bobby was shown into the room by a brusque night sister. Haggard through lack of sleep and stiff from unplanned travel, he shot a brief smile in Sam's direction before he froze in horror at the sight of the suffering figure in the bed.

"Holy God," he muttered, his face rapidly draining of what little colour it actually had.

"He's getting worse all the time," Sam explained sadly. "He feels freezing cold and his temperature is dropping all the time, I've no idea what it is at the moment."

Bobby huffed, scratching his head under his cap; an automatic action that Sam recognised as Bobby's very own individual nervous tic; "I got the stuff," he muttered, voice quaking with concern; "I hope to God it helps."

"So do I," Sam agreed; "he's in so much pain."

Without further hesitation, Bobby rummaged in his pocket and pulled out two small vials of brown soupy liquid.

"Two?" Enquired Sam curiously.

"Yeah, two," confirmed Bobby; "once we give Dean this stuff, we're gonna have one mightily pissed Jack Frost on our hands because we've tainted his plaything."

He hesitated, glancing down at Dean again, "we need to protect ourselves; in this frosty dick's case, revenge really would be a dish served cold."

Sam nodded mutely in agreement; once again, Bobby was talking perfect sense.

"I've already had mine," he added handing one of the vials to Sam. "Tastes like friggin' ass," he added with a mirthless smile.

Sam smiled weakly in return, and took the vial from Bobby. Without question, he removed the stopper with a hollow pop.

"L'chaim," raising the vial to Bobby, he gulped it down in one.

"Guugh," he grimaced, suppressing the urge to vomit as he choked out a shuddering gasp; "ass is about right."

Bobby smiled; "told ya so."

xxxxx

Eventually satisfied that Sam was going to keep the potion down, Bobby turned his attention to Dean.

"Can he drink?"

"I hope so," Sam replied, "he hasn't had anything for a while, he has trouble swallowing."

Bobby rubbed a hand across his beard, "can we risk it?"

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed; "we'll get it down him some way," he looked up at Bobby with eyes of steel and Bobby knew that failure wasn't going to be an option.

Turning to Dean, Sam's face softened as he spoke; "Dean, I need you to drink something for me, okay?"

Heavy lidded eyes stared glassily through him.

Reaching down, Sam slid an arm under Dean's back, cringing at how cold it felt, "I'm going to pour some liquid into your mouth," he spoke quietly and firmly as he gently hoisted Dean to a sitting position; "you've got to drink it, understand? I can't - I won't let you spit it out, however bad it tastes."

He wormed his way back so that Dean was leaning against his shoulder, the force of his shivers vibrating against Sam's chest, and pushing the breath out of him.

"This is going to help you, Dean," Sam murmured softly; "you gotta trust me, okay?"

If Sam was seeking some nugget of acknowledgement, he hoped he'd got what he wanted when Dean managed a wordless, stuttering snort.

xxxxx

Bobby removed the stopper and tentatively handed the remaining vial to Sam who took it with silent thanks and tightened his grip across Dean's chest; "okay, dude, down the hatch."

He gently worked the edge of the vial between Dean's grey lips and tipped it up, emptying the slick contents into his mouth.

Throwing the empty vial onto the bed, he quickly clamped a hand over Dean's mouth.

"Swallow it Dean," he coaxed gently; "swallow."

Dean grimaced against the foul taste, and writhed against Sam's firm but gentle grip.

"C'mon Dean," Sam pleaded; "please, you gotta swallow this crap."

Sam felt Dean retching and gagging beneath his hand and began to worry that he might actually be choking. His fears were calmed when he finally saw Dean's throat convulse as he swallowed the offensive brew.

Sam looked up at Bobby, "he's got it," he sighed.

Lifting his hand from Dean's mouth, Sam recoiled in shock as Dean let out a choking gasp and bucked violently.

Suddenly the room came alive with vivid flashes of blue which crackled and burst, pinballing furiously over the walls and ceiling; a crazed, dancing kaleidoscope illuminating the shocked faces of the figures huddled protectively around Dean like the crackling lights of a firework display.

In the midst of the incandescent chaos, Dean writhed and thrashed wildly in Sam's arms.

Then, like the fresh, clean tranquillity that follows a thunderstorm, the room settled abruptly into eerie stillness.

Dean subsided bonelessly into the solid wall of Sam's chest as the younger man blinked back nauseous shock, looking up at Bobby though eyes still scarred with flickering, swirling ghosts of blue.

"H-holy …" was all that Bobby managed to croak. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the muffled panting of the two shocked figures.

Gathering his scattered wits, Sam glanced down at the limp figure sprawled against him, and his heart lurched, "Bobby, he's not shivering any more."

Bobby knelt down beside him, wincing under a symphony of cracking, popping knee joints; "well … that's good ain't it?" he responded cautiously.

"Well, I guess … yeah, but …"

Sam tightened his grip around Dean, gently rubbing his arms and chest, "C'mon dude," he muttered, desperately trying to convince himself he could feel a heartbeat.

"Dean," he prompted, wishing he could have felt as confident as he sounded, "c'mon man, that stupid blue skank's gone."

He patted Dean's cheek, a sense of increasing dread building within him, and glanced up at Bobby. The older man's watery grey eyes stared back at him in silent fear.

"DEAN man," he began to plead; "for God's sake, answer me."

Dean's ice-cold body lolled weakly against him.

xxxxx

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

A CHILL IN THE AIR

Chapter 7

It's not just pissed faeries that the Winchesters need to beware of ...

xxxxx

"DEAN."

"C'mon man," Sam begged, gently shaking his brother's limp body; you can't do this, not now, not now we've fixed you."

Dean slumped bonelessly in Sam's arms; icy cold, silent and terrifyingly unresponsive. Sam choked back a sob as Dean's arm dropped limply out of his lap onto the bed. He could feel panic boiling up within him; he couldn't even be sure whether the pounding thrum he could feel across Dean's chest through his own shaking fingertips was Dean's heartbeat or his own racing pulse.

Bobby stood over them helplessly, clutching his cap to his chest like a comfort blanket; "I'll get a doctor," he croaked, flinging the door open and disappearing out into the corridor as fast as Sam had ever seen him move.

"Dude," Sam murmured forlornly, "c'mon man, it's your birthday in two days; I was gonna buy you a great big apple pie for your birthday. You don't wanna miss out on that, do you?"

He cradled Dean's head against his shoulder, "C'mon man, it's Jack Frost; you aren't gonna let yourself get beaten by some stupid asshat faierie, are you?"

"Please," he whispered; "please Dean, you can't go. Who's going to look after my great geeky ass if I haven't got my badass big brother to do the job?"

He was repaid by deafening, heartbreaking, lifeless silence.

Sam closed his eyes, and clenched his teeth, trying to stem the tears which threatened to spill. "Can't let you see me crying," he hissed weakly, gathering Dean tighter into his arms; "when you wake up, I'd never hear the last of it."

xxxxx

Time stood still.

It had only been a moment, but it could just as easily have been ten years, when Sam suddenly became aware of something warm and moist huffing quietly against the crook of his neck.

"Dean?"

He was rewarded with a muffled groan; the sweetest music he had ever heard.

"Dude?" he gasped, breathless with excitement, pulling back to look at Dean's parchment white face.

Dean blinked up at him blearily, and Sam didn't care that his own face was stained with tears of joy. The green eyes slowly drifted back into focus and latched onto Sam's face.

"Hey Dean," Sam gulped; "it's good to see you man; you really had me going there you jerk."

Blinking vacantly, Dean swallowed with great effort, his grey lips moved slowly as if he was attempting to speak.

"S'okay dude, take it easy," Sam soothed, slowly releasing his grip on Dean and carefully leaning him back into his pillows. He listened patiently until eventually Dean managed to form the words that had been playing silently on his bloodless lips since he awoke.

"A-apple pie?"

Sam stared incredulous. For a moment he didn't know whether to laugh or pull a bitchface.

"Apple pie?" He scraped a hand through his hair; "you've been at death's door for two days, Bobby's moved heaven and earth and crossed the country to find a cure, and all you can think of is apple pie?"

Dean stared at him, frowning as his hazy mind little by little coalesced into some degree of awareness.

There was a long, silent pause between the two men.

"So, is there apple pie or isn't there?"

Sam snorted out a quiet laugh and busied himself tucking the bedclothes up around Dean, plumping pillows and generally fussing. "Soon bro'," he reassured; "just not yet, gotta get you well first."

Dean huffed quietly. "m'good," he paused for a moment before succumbing to a little shudder; "feelin' okay."

Sam noted with unspoken delight that Dean's voice already sounded undeniably stronger and clearer than when he awoke, and relief poured down on him like an April shower.

"Oh Jeez, Dean," Sam sighed, wiping his wet face; "I really thought I was going to lose you."

Dean rolled his eyes; "gonn' grow ovaries one day."

Sam discreetly scanned his brother's body. There was definitely a warm glow colouring Dean's cheeks, a soft, pink plushness to his previously grey and chapped lips, his bloodless fingernails had regained their natural pink tinge. Thinking back to what he and Bobby had done, he thought of Dean as the first flower of spring; crumpled and withered, helpless against the cold, but opening it's colourful radiant face to the sun's first beautiful warm rays.

His smile stretched into a grin at the thought of Dean as a daffodil. "Whatever dude," he chuckled.

"Probably already got them," Dean snorted.

xxxxx

Sam decided to take the opportunity of the brothers' time alone to apprise Dean of his deadly brush with Winter and it's faerie facilitator. Dean needed to know, if not just to satisfy his own curiosity, but to prevent him opening his smart mouth at the wrong time again. Sam had no idea how long this 'springtime shield' lasted, and the last thing Sam wanted was for the brothers to find out they'd got some kind of faerie fatwah hanging over their heads. They had enough supernatural fuglies that hated their guts already, without adding another to the list.

He'd just opened his mouth to speak when the door burst open.

They both looked up with a start as Bobby came crashing back into the room dragging a slightly alarmed-looking medic behind him.

"There he is," Bobby gasped; "he's …"

Bobby's voice tailed off.

"He's awake!"

Dean stared up the older man's pallid face, the sheen of fear-driven perspiration across his brow and at his astounded gape, registering something between relief and shock.

"Hey Bobby," he smiled, giving a little wave.

The doctor glanced back warily at Bobby before heading for Dean; "why, you're looking better there," he observed cheerfully.

Sam glanced across at Bobby who was still panting from his hi-octane circumnavigation of the hospital searching for help. Bobby returned his glance.

"Yeah, feel, uh, okay I guess," Dean replied in the blank manner he reserved for doctors, officers of the law and other figures of authority, especially the ones who weren't female and pretty. "Why the hell am I in here?"

"Well, Dean, I'm Doctor Halliwell and that's what I intend to find out." Without another word, Halliwell went to work, pulling a thermometer from his breast pocket and slipping it between his patient's lips before he had a chance to object. As he waited for the mercury to do its work, the good doctor picked up Dean's wrist and measured his pulse.

Sam, Bobby and Dean all watched Halliwell's brow furrow quizzically as he stared at the thermometer.

"Your temperature is normal," he muttered, scratching his head in puzzlement; "I just don't understand this."

Dean folded his arms, "good, that makes two of us!" He glared up at Sam.

Halliwell turned to Sam; "what happened?" he enquired.

Sam shrugged with a weak grin, "I don't know, he jus' kinda got better," he lied weakly. He was desperate to explain to Dean the story behind his hospitalisation before Dean took it upon himself to beat it out of Sam, but so far the opportunity just hadn't presented itself; he guessed that 'he-was-cursed-by-Jack-Frost-and-then-we-bottled- springtime-and-gave-it-to him-to-drink' would be the sort of explanation that would earn him a one-way trip to the psyche ward.

The doctor scratched his head again and turned to Bobby, then back to Dean; "I've never seen anything like this, your condition was a complete mystery, and now this; a total recovery. I'd call it a miracle if I believed in them!"

Sam could see where this was heading. The doctor's face was alight like a child with a new toy; the chance to discover an entirely new condition. This was his Warholesque fifteen minutes of fame.

"We'll run some more tests," the Doctor gasped in breathless excitement; "I'll get a MRI scan lined up, and we'll take some more bloods, oh … and get you fixed up on an ECG, and then we'll take it from there." He smiled broadly as he reached for the door; "don't worry Dean, we'll figure this out if it's the last thing we do."

The three men watched as Doctor Halliwell scampered out of the room, almost slamming his white coat in the door in his excited glee.

Dean stared up at Sam and Bobby.

"What rattled his cage?"

Sam shrugged with a weak smile.

"I think you did dude."

Bobby chuckled to himself; "guess he's never seen a supernatural illness before."

Sam reached down and laid a palm over Dean's reassuringly warm forehead, getting his hand swatted away for his trouble.

"What do you remember?"

Dean sighed, "I remember feelin' like I was comin' down with something, but I dunno, it seems to have passed; feel fine now."

"Well, you've certainly made Doctor Halliwell's day," Sam smiled, "you'll get him written up in the Lancet!"

"Screw that," Dean announced. Kicking the blanket off, he wriggled out from underneath it, ignoring disapproving stares from Sam and Bobby.

"What?" he asked, "I ain't sitting here, waitin' for Doctor Frankenstein there to come back an' freakin' vivisect me, jus' so he can get an entirely new friggin' disease named after him."

"Bu-but Dean," Sam stammered, "you don't know if you're fit enough."

"Fit as a bull, snapped Dean, hopping down off the bed.

"Give me some clothes, I'm bustin' out of here," Dean demanded, turning and leaning over the nightstand to pick up a stray pair of socks. Both Sam and Bobby recoiled in unison as his bare ass peeked through the gaping back of his lavender grey hospital gown. All things considered, although Sam would much rather not have been put in the position to see it in the first place, he was delighted to see it was pink and perky, rather like the rest of Dean.

Sam and Bobby exchanged glances and shrugged in resignation. Normal service, it seemed, was well and truly resumed.

xxxxx

The three men crept furtively through the hospital. Bobby and Sam walking either side of Dean who, wearing Bobby's cap pulled down over his face, and Sam's massive overshirt with the collar pulled up around his face, together with the T shirt and sweats he had been wearing when Sam brought him in, huddled between the two figures doing his best to be invisible.

It seemed like they walked forever through a maze of soulless corridors in increasingly revolting shades of beige trying to find the way out of the place, hoping against hope that they wouldn't run into Doctor 'Nobel Prize for Medicine' Halliwell.

It was only as they settled into the back of a taxi, secure and relieved in the knowledge that the road had finally been opened, that they were able to smile at the thought of Halliwell returning to the room and discovering his personal pension plan had gone over the wall.

The taxi pulled up in the freezing slush outside the motel only moments later and the three men trudged through the largely undisturbed snow, past the forlorn hulk of the snow covered Impala, back to the room which stood exactly as Sam had left it; bedclothes in disarray, a bath full of cold water and the musk of his sweat hanging heavy in the air.

Bobby and Dean sat themselves on the beds while Sam headed straight for the kitchenette, and a hefty infusion of caffeine.

xxxxx

"So are you gonna tell me what happened or am I gonna keep askin?" Dean demanded over the top of his steaming mug.

Sam knew he could spill the truth here; there were no civilians about who had the power to cart them off to the nearest funny farm. Sam's mouth twitched into a smile at the thought of Halliwell mourning the loss of his life's work before it had even begun.

"You were really sick bro', I thought you were going to die," Sam began.

"Yeah, I woke up in hospital," Dean snapped; "I guessed I wasn't on scout camp; what in hell happened?"

Sam sighed and gave a weak smile in Bobby's direction.

"Well, basically dude, you got your ass royally kicked by a faerie."

xxxxx

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

A CHILL IN THE AIR

Chapter 8

Dean learns more about his ordeal, but has he learned the lesson he needs to learn? Sam and Bobby aren't optimistic.

_xxxxx_

_"Well, basically dude, you got your ass royally kicked by a faerie."_

xxxxx

Dean sat on the bed and stared up at Sam for an age. He stared for so long that Sam felt the overwhelming desire to blink on his behalf.

"Faerie?"

Sam nodded, taking a sip from his coffee; "yeah that's right."

Dean turned abruptly and stared across at Bobby for the same eyeball-shrivelling length of time.

"As in … like, faerie?"

Bobby shrugged, "'less you know of any other kind?"

Dean turned back to Sam, his face wearing an expression that hovered somewhere between wide-eyed bewilderment and embarrassed indignation.

"I got pasted by a friggin' smurf?"

Sam tried hard to check the snort of laughter that was threatening to escape by remembering that only hours ago his brother was lying in a hospital bed dying, and that they had no guarantee that Dean was completely safe from faerie retribution yet, but for the moment he couldn't deny he was enjoying this just a tiny little bit.

"Well it was blue," he replied casually.

Dean's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"But no dude, it wasn't a smurf, it was a faerie," he corrected Dean; "but if it's any consolation, it was a goddamned powerful one."

Dean turned to Bobby who nodded in enthusiastic agreement; "yup, real powerful, and damned dangerous."

Hesitating briefly, Dean shook his head.

"No, you're wrong," he stated belligerently, folding his arms across his chest; " I've been chewed on by zombies, cursed by witches and battered to hell and back by evil spirits. I've seen off the worst the supernatural world has to offer; and I've ganked 'em all." He set his face in the classic Dean Winchester 'you're-talkin'-crap' scowl, daring Sam and Bobby to disagree with him. "I ganked 'em all and I would not let myself get totalled by some pint-sized sparkly asshole with butterfly wings and a tiara."

"There weren't any butterfly wings or tiaras bro'," Sam explained, hoping that he might be able to salve Dean's bruised ego; "It was Jack Frost."

Dean's mouth moved but no sound came out.

Sam nodded and expanded the story; "you pissed off Jack Frost, dude, a real bad thing to do," he hesitated as if the memory was distressing to recall; "he got his faerie magic hooks into you, and was slowly freezing you to death. It was horrible, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it."

Dean's frown deepened as he looked up at Bobby; "Jack Frost?"

Bobby let out an exasperated huff as he nodded, "yeah Jack Frost. Jeez boy, you're a bit slow on the uptake today, ain't ya?"

"Well excuse me," snorted Dean indignantly, "my mind is apparently only just defrosted an' it's just trying to process the fact that I lost a title fight with a friggin' faerie who turned out to be Jack Frost." He glared at the older man; "what next, Frosty the goddamn Snowman?"

His head swivelled back in Sam's direction. "You told me Jack Frost was a friggin' nursery rhyme or fairytale or whatever the crap it was."

Sam shrugged sheepishly, "sorry, dude, what can I say? I was wrong."

Dean sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair, wearily; "okay, so let's assume for a moment that you two aren't talking complete gonads and that all this all really did happen."

"Assume away;"Sam gestured for Dean to continue.

"What the hell did I do to deserve getting my ass kicked by Jack friggin' Frost?"

"Well, you did call him a faerie douchebag," Sam began; "then you said he should go and screw himself."

Dean shrugged; "and?"

"And you said you'd like to gank him, and that he could shove his friggin' 'pretty' snow and his crappy ice and his sparkly douchewad snowflakes up his ass."

Dean still looked unmoved.

"Spiky blue ass, I believe you called it," Sam corrected himself; "oh, and you said he was a gold-plated dick."

Dean stewed moodily; "some people are just way too friggin' sensitive," he snorted.

xxxxx

Bobby sighed; "the thing you need to understand about faeries," he explained, anxious to make Dean understand what he was up against; "is that they aren't pink and sparkly, nor do they have butterfly wings, they don't wear tiaras, they don't live at the bottom of your garden, and worst of all, the little bastards don't freakin' die if you say you don't believe in them."

Dean considered Bobby's words. "Not smurfs then?"

Bobby flicked an exasperated look between the Winchesters, "no, not friggin' smurfs," he snapped; "pin ya goddamn ears back an' listen y'idjit - I'm tryin' to keep your sorry ass alive."

Dean grinned as Bobby rolled his eyes irritably; baiting Bobby was such good sport.

"Faeries are mercurial, unpredictable little sonsofbitches. Like nature, they're volatile, they can be calm and placid one day, and kickin' up a storm to cause nothin' but death and destruction the next day."

Sam couldn't help but silently reflect that Bobby had just described Dean.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when Dean spoke up again; "okay so they're bad news, I get that."

"Not jus' bad news," Bobby replied "they're elusive and secretive and you know as well as I do, that makes 'em dangerous. There's hardly any lore about them, and what lore there is has been bastardised over years by the popular culture idiots who have turned them into these nauseating little pink jokers that you were thinkin' of."

Bobby warmed to his theme; "they are malicious, devious, spiteful little dicks and they don't give a spit for human life," he snorted; "and they are seriously up their own ass. They expect to be treated with respect, an' so what you don't do if you value your life and your sanity," he glared at Dean; "is call them douchebag, dick, douchewad and tell them to stick their snowflakes up their ass you friggin' idjit."

Dean looked down into his lap, admonished, and scowled sheepishly. Sam and Bobby both hoped he'd finally got the message; faeries are code red dangerous.

"Well, what about this Jack Frost jerk, then," Dean grumbled sourly; "did we gank the little skank?"

Sam and Bobby both sighed in exasperation. Seemingly not.

"Nope," Bobby replied, "there's no proven way to kill a faerie; they're immortal so far as we know. What we've done is shielded you from him."

Dean's furrowed brow asked the question.

"Jack frost is a type of Faerie called a Winter Sprite," Bobby began; "they're real powerful; basically they control winter - him and winter are one and the same element."

"He must be friggin' busy," Dean mused; "It's winter all over the world; hasn't he got anything better to be doing than hauntin' my goddamn ass?"

"There's not just one Winter Sprite, they're a race of faeries; there's loads of them," Bobby replied; "our culture has just given them the name Jack Frost 'cause … well, I don't friggin' know why, we just have!"

"An' it seems that you've made a serious enemy of the one that's active round these parts," Bobby added curtly.

"Stupid blue freak," Dean grumbled under his breath.

"An' you ain't winnin' any brownie points to rectify the situation," Bobby snapped.

"So, how have you 'shielded' me?" Dean changed the subject.

"We're all shielded," Sam spoke up; "Bobby's got a contact who knows about this sort of stuff, and he said the only thing powerful enough to see off these Winter Sprites is springtime. So he made up a mixture of all different elements of spring; rising sap, crocus pollen, newborn lambs blood, and we've all drunk it."

"Oh …" Dean looked up at him, a broad grin stretching across his face; "man, that is inspired! Hi-octane bug repellent."

Bobby rolled his eyes; "can it princess, you're not out of the woods yet. We don't know how long this 'shield' lasts, and we're fairly sure old Jack ain't gonna just back off and leave you alone. What little lore does exist all points to the fact that these things bear grudges; they're immortal – they can wait. So you two have got to get the hell out of dodge just in case it wears off soon, and you find yourself Jack Frost's bitch again."

Dean frowned as he drained his coffee; "no wonder I always hated friggin' winter."

"An' you ain't exactly gone out of your way to make amends since we got you out of the hospital," Bobby warned darkly; "in fact you've probably given him enough goddamned material to take out another friggin' vendetta on ya!"

"Tomorrow morning," Bobby continued; "soon as sun up, I'd suggest you an' me whe get our asses out there and get the Impala up an' running then head south until we can figure out what to do next."

Dean nodded enthusiastically; "an' then I can get my birthday or at least a couple of days after it, in Florida," he rubbed his hands in glee; "bring it on - Jack frost can't follow us down there."

xxxxx

A hazy winter dawn filtered weakly through the room's thick net curtains, the grey light stung Sam's eyes as they opened after a long, but disturbed night's sleep.

Bobby's words had struck hard and Sam's initial relief that Dean was recovered from his ordeal had been washed away by his annoyance that Dean wouldn't take the faerie threat seriously, and concern that in his bull-headed stubbornness, he either couldn't or wouldn't see the potential danger that he had gotten himself into.

He glanced at his watch and the slim black hands told him it was almost 8.30 am.

Rolling over, he caught sight of Bobby sprawled out asleep on the couch, his right arm dangling over the edge of the cushions, fingertips coiled in the dusty, threadbare carpet.

He heaved himself up on one elbow and glanced across to the other bed, and saw immediately that it was empty.

"Dean?"

"Blinking, he heaved himself up on one elbow to look across at the bathroom. The door was wide open, the room unlit; Dean obviously wasn't in there.

"Dean? Where the hell are you?"

A brief bolt of alarm drilled through his chest. It couldn't be ... not the Winter Sprite? Was it back? It hadn't done something even worse to Dean?

He reached for his phone, and promptly dropped it in shock as the sudden throaty roar of an engine broke the silence, waking Bobby who let out a violent snort as he tumbled off the couch.

The door was flung open and Dean stepped through, arms loaded with a toolbox and a lantern, huffing as he stamped a crust of trampled snow off of his boots. A fresh rosy glow burned across his cheeks and a glistening dewdrop swung merrily to and fro off the end of his pink nose.

"Listen to that," he sighed, wiping his nose on the back of his hand and glancing back outside toward the growl of the engine; "sweet, sweet music. I got my baby fixed and warming up; she's ready to hit the road and find me some decent weather for my birthday."

"C'mon let's go and melt Jack Frost's skanky blue ass!"

xxxxx

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

A CHILL IN THE AIR

Chapter 9

The Winchesters' journey south is not without it's hazards.

xxxxx

A little over an hour had passed since The Winchesters and Bobby had pointed the Impala south and put the snow-bound motel, it's dreadful memories and the pervading menace that it harboured into their rear-view mirror.

As they journeyed on, they were all dismayed to see little indication of the harsh winter weather improving; in fact, if anything, they all conceded that it seemed to be getting worse; the ice crystals feathering the Impala's windscreen and the biting wind that buffeted and nudged her along were sure indications of that.

Despite their concerns, Dean cautiously guided his baby along deserted roads, grey and desolate under the winter's grip, asphalt like sheet ice. Biting his lip in concentration, he weaved and swerved, dodging encroaching snowdrifts and fallen trees.

As careful as Dean was trying to be, both his passengers could feel the edge of urgency in his driving; he knew from Sam's demeanour that what had happened back there at the motel with this Jack Frost douchebag and his creepy faerie magic, it was bad and he had no desire to prolong Sam and Bobby's exposure to that sort of threat.

He let out a grunted curse, feeling a vicious crosswind battering the car as she ploughed her way onward through the blinding winterscape.

Sam peered upwards through her windscreen, concerned eyes scanning the threatening, muddy clouds that roiled and tumbled over them, heavy with the threat of unfallen snow.

"Hell Dean, it looks evil out there," he remarked, "better go easy."

"I am goin' easy," snapped Dean irritably; "hell if I go any easier I'll be goin' in reverse!"

Sitting quiet in the back of the Impala Bobby mulled silently. There was a leaden block of cold concern weighing deep in the pit of his stomach, and he knew it was nothing to do with Dean's driving.

xxxxx

They continued along for several more increasingly fraught miles.

"Dean man, we've gotta stop," Sam snapped as the rapidly deteriorating weather continued to close in around them. Dean shook his head, squinting as he stared straight ahead through the blustering snow that had begun to fall.

"This ain't no ordinary storm," Bobby warned darkly, leaning over the front seat between the brothers; "this is 'you know who'; he's still pissed at Dean, an' nothin's gonna change that."

Undeterred, the Impala forged on through the encroaching blizzard, trusting under Dean's hand. She slid drunkenly across glassy roads, lurching and shuddering, tossed around like a cork on an ocean of violent crosswinds which lashed and whirled around them, shrieking like a riot of banshees.

Dean set his jaw and cranked up the radio to drown his brother's pleas for him to pull over.

"Dean, you gotta stop," Sam tried again, yelling over the howl of the wind and the dissonant strains of some crash metal atrocity that Dean had found on the local radio station. He let out a gasp as the Impala lurched nauseously under another assault from the gale.

"Dean, for God's sake pull over man, it's lethal out here."

"No," barked Dean; "you heard Bobby, that's what the dickwad wants. Tol' you, he can kiss my freakin' ass; I ain't stoppin' for him."

Dean gripped the wheel with white knuckled ferocity, as much from anger as from anxiety and jerked it back towards Sam as the Impala began to drift across the road.

Bobby sunk back into his seat, knowing that Dean's only slim hope of survival was to keep running. You didn't stand and face faerie magic, you didn't beat it.

You just got the hell out of its way.

xxxxx

The Impala ploughed on through the storm, fat hailstones beating out a furious tattoo on her bodywork, the deafening rumble of their onslaught echoed through the cabin drowning out the hideous music and the shrieking of the wind.

A swarm of whirling snowflakes joined the assault, hurling themselves against the windscreen, defying the wipers which flipped to and fro, busily trying and failing to dislodge them. They began to overwhelm her, obscuring her windows and headlights, and packing her tyres with compressed ice.

It was a few miles further on where Dean's increasing snow blindness led him to misjudge a bend in the road. It all happened instantaneously and the Impala spun queasily, skating over the ice slick road and ploughed heavily into a deep snowdrift, which collapsed over her.

Her three occupants rattled around inside her by the force of her sudden halt, but eventually as the car settled, so did they. Dean reached forward and switched off her engine.

"Shit!" he yelled furiously; "shit, shit, SHIT!"

Bobby and Sam exchanged glances. For a moment, the only sound that could be heard was the harsh breathing of the Impala's three dazed occupants and the howling of the wind, muffled into nothing more than a moan by the blanket of snow that covered them.

"Well we can stay in the car," Sam broke the uneasy silence cautiously, glad for the opportunity to speak without screaming over the god-awful music. "We could try to ride out the worst of it; we've got plenty of gas, we can at least keep the engine running and the heat on."

"No we can't," snapped Dean; "front end's buried, that means the vents are all blocked up with goddamned snow."

Sam looked at him with a little shrug.

Dean sighed, rolling his eyes theatrically; why was his brother such a mechanical moron?

Bobby answered Sam's question; "that means all the fumes from the engine will be venting back in here."

Sam was silent for a moment as the wheels in his head turned; "oh great," he snorted, "no civilisation in sight and our options are to freeze to death or die of carbon monoxide poisoning."

Dean rubbed his forehead, pulling in a deep breath through his nose; "I say it again, SHIT!"

xxxxx

The three men fell into a brief silence before Dean spoke up again.

"I can try to dig away the worst of the snow, see if I can get some air flowing."

Sam's eyes widened and he stared at Dean as if he were insane.

"You can't go out there Dean," he gestured around them at the storm raging outside the car; "it's damned mayhem."

"You got any better ideas," Dean snapped defiantly; "you said it yourself, our other options are to freeze to death or poison ourselves with engine fumes."

He sighed deeply and tried to soften his voice for sam's sake; "Sammy, we've got nothing to lose, I gotta try something, my girl's not going anywhere, and so neither are we."

Bobby groaned, he hated it when Dean talked sense because it almost always forebode some reckless act of mindless self-sacrifice.

"C'mon, I'll help ya son," he grunted, sliding across the seat toward the door.

Sam shook his head in resignation and sighed; "okay I'm in, three of us'll get the job done quicker."

Dean's head swivelled round, it was clear he wasn't happy with the arrangement but even he couldn't argue with Sam's logic.

xxxxx

After a brief exercise in locating every scrap of outdoor clothing that was within reach they forced the doors open, fighting against the gale as they half stepped, half tumbled out of the car.

Sam stood shakily, only to lose his footing and faceplant heavily into the ice beneath his feet. Dean and Bobby bowed their heads, as they leaned into the wind, stumbling blindly around the car, trying to shield their faces from the bitterly cold ice crystals that rode the screaming wind and tore at their skin like burning shrapnel.

"It's him alright," Bobby yelled at the top of his voice, trying to be heard over the deafening shriek of the wind, "he can't get to you now you're shielded so he's attacking you from a distance – through the weather that he creates."

His voice was carried away by the storm's fury, the words unheard by Dean.

Dean clambered his way to the drift and dropped to his knees, making himself as small a target as possible, grimacing as the flying ice and snow hammered into his back, soaking through the layers of clothes he had pulled together. He dug purposefully into the drift, scrabbling out the tightly packed snow, his fingers burning with the intense cold even through his thick gloves.

Beside him, Bobby worked on the other side of the car, leaning into her solid fender to prevent himself being blown over.

A swirling fog of vapour whipped and whirled around them as they panted heavily through the bitter chill.

xxxxx

"Can we reverse her out?"

Dean flinched as Sam's voice sounded in his ear. He realised Sam had made his way up behind him, his jeans sodden where he had been forced to crawl alongside the car to maintain his footing.

Dean shook his head; "no," he yelled; "too icy, she'd never get a grip."

"What about salt?" Sam asked, "we've got a big bag of it in the trunk, could we lay it behind her wheels?."

Hesitating at his work, Dean considered Sam's suggestion.

"Dunno," he snorted, shivering and hugging his freezing wet fingers under the warmth of his armpits; "it might be worth a try."

Sam nodded and made his way back to open the trunk, fumbling blindly for the bag of salt.

As he grabbed it he turned and froze, his eyes widening in horror at the sight behind him.

"Dean," he yelled; "Bobby."

He stumbled blindly backwards, pointing at the terrible thing that stood behind him.

"LOOK!"

xxxxx

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

A CHILL IN THE AIR

Chapter 10

xxxxx

"LOOK!"

Sam's stunned cry was lost on the wind as he stumbled backwards against the Impala's gaping trunk, dropping the sack of salt beside him.

The briefest of glances behind him showed that Dean and Bobby were still hard at work, huddled into the impala's bodywork, trying to be as small as possible against the blizzard. Swirling tendrils of mist rose up from them, dissipating into the billowing fury that raged around them as they panted harshly; partly from exertion, partly from pain, their freezing hands clawing at the massive snowdrift that had overwhelmed the Impala.

He turned slowly back, squinting through the dashing snow that stung and burned his eyes. Hoping against hope that what he had just seen would be gone; a stress induced hallucination maybe? But no; his heart lurched as he saw it again.

The creature that stood before him, he guessed, was easily as tall as he was. Cobalt blue, it stood hunched over on long grotesquely spidery legs, it's scaly feet, with equally long, crookedly jointed toes, were seemingly untroubled by the snow in which they were planted.

An odd, glassy crest adorned the top of its domed head, standing central between its oversized, pointed ears. Running down the back of its narrow neck the crest disappeared under a ragged silvery tabard it wore. Crystalline and sharp like needle-thin icicles, the tendrils that made up the crest fluttered and tinkled musically above the wind.

But the thing that Sam's pebble-wide eyes locked onto was its face.

This was a winter sprite, presumably the one that Dean had offended. This was Jack Frost himself, of that Sam had no doubt.

And Jack Frost was one barking ugly sonofabitch.

Sam knew those glinting, beady eyes would haunt him forever. Cold and brimming with spite, they peered out from a gaunt, cadaverous face. The small unblinking, malevolent eyes bored into him, displaying callous disregard as it watched him cower helplessly, squinting and shielding his face against the storm that the sprite had wrought.

Its wide, frog-like mouth curled into a thin, lipless sneer of satisfaction.

It took a slow, deliberate step toward Sam, never taking its eyes away from him, utterly unconcerned about the storm raging around it. Whereas Sam was struggling to remain upright, the force of the wind frequently taking his not insubstantial weight and tossing it aside like a wet rag, this skeletal creature moved through the howling storm with casual ease, as if it was walking through a summer breeze.

As it advanced on Sam, it lifted one of its long, stringy arms, and pointed a crooked, bony fingertip toward him. Slowly, and with infinite menace, it began to draw a slow, lazy spiral in the air.

Its cold, bitter sneer widened as it's circling fingertip picked up speed, and Sam saw the snow beginning to circle around it. Faster and faster the finger whirled until it was little more than a cobalt blur.

Insensible with shock, Sam gradually realised what it was doing.

It was whipping up a whirlwind.

xxxxx

Sam watched in open-mouthed disbelief as the snow that had been spinning wildly around the creature's circling fingertip like a twinkling white catherine wheel, grew; gathering more snow, elongating and intensifying into a raging funnel of spinning ice crystals.

Slowly, the sprite withdrew it's hand and released the funnel which began to race haphazardly through the driving snowfall directly toward Sam.

Backpedalling rapidly, Sam leaned heavily into the Impala as he tried to gain footing on the glassy ground, but between them, the wind and the icy hard-packed snow underfoot left him helplessly flailing and sliding in his attempt to maintain any sort of balance.

The whirling funnel of ice consumed him as he lay helpless on the ground curling into a ball, trying to protect himself from the burning claws of the flying ice-crystals which tore at his skin.

xxxxx

"SAM!"

On hearing a commotion behind him, Dean had turned to see what was going on. In shock, he staggered backward, shielding his eyes against the howling wind as he tumbled into the snowdrift.

"SAM … BOBBY," he yelled, trying to make himself heard over the wind as he scrambled helplessly in his vain attempts to escape the huge mound of snow and go to his brother's aid. All he succeeded of doing was digging himself further into the snowdrift as he repeatedly tried and failed to find his footing.

"Hey douchebag," he roared in desperate frustration; "get your goddamned skanky snow shit off my freakin' brother."

The sprite glared at him, tiny glimmering black eyes burning with malice.

"DEAN, don't make it goddamn worse," Bobby yelled from around the Impala. Labouring clumsily to his feet, he hung on to the Impala's wing mirror and tried to make his way round the car to help, but the force of the gale held him back, like walking against a brick wall.

In the meantime, Sam had slowly uncurled, daring to believe that the force of the whirlwind might be diminishing; he remembered learning at school that whirlwinds, tornadoes, whatever you called them, were very short-lived and it seemed that this one was no exception. He rose shakily to his hands and knees, shivering both from his ordeal and the crust of snow that covered him. Blinking sore, watering eyes; his face felt like it had been skinned.

xxxxx

Dean recoiled from the grotesque figure as it loomed over him, working a swirling cloud of snowflakes between its fingertips like a spider spins it's gossamer. He watched in breathless dread as the spinning formless mass hardened into a vicious lightning bolt of ice which the sprite hurled up into the hillside behind him.

Dean glanced up behind him momentarily, then back at the hate-filled face before him just in time to see a spiteful smirk break out across it.

It was the last thing he saw before a thunderous avalanche of snow, dislodged from the hillside by the icy blast crashed down over Dean, knocking him off his feet and burying him under a solid wall of packed snow.

Sam clumsily hauled himself to his feet, gripping the Impala's open trunk to try to stay upright and watched in horror at the scene unfolding before him.

The creature laughed out loud; that same reedy chuckle that had tormented Sam back at the motel room, as it stood before the mountain of snow which sprawled, as deep as Sam was tall, covering both Dean and half the Impala. More and more snow and ice was tumbling down, settling higher and heavier, burying Dean deeper and more helplessly in his ice-cold tomb.

Sam looked across to see Bobby, half covered by the snowdrift, fighting to escape its advance and knew he had to act now. The time for thinking and researching was over.

If only he knew the hell what to do.

xxxxx

Plastered against the Impala's frost flecked door, he gasped for breath, still soaked and numb with bone-chilling cold from his assault by the snow-devil, and stared down at the deepening snow at his feet.

It was then he saw something else at his feet.

The discarded bag of salt.

He stared at it and Bobby's words came rushing back to him; 'Jack Frost and winter are one and the same element'.

Surely it couldn't be that easy? It's never that easy.

But his mind couldn't help but think on what happens to ice and snow when salt is poured on it.

His heart raced; he had to act quickly and, well, if he was wrong it wasn't like he could piss the blue dick off any more than they already had.

Nothing to lose.

He grasped the bag of salt and stumbled forward, shouldering the sack as he skated clumsily toward the sprite on the packed ice. He felt his balance desert him, and using the momentum of his forward descent, he tumbled into the blue creature and emptied the whole bag of salt over it.

xxxxx

No-one could have been prepared for the violence with which the sprite reacted. Throwing its head back, it howled. Convulsing wildly, it's scream shattered icicles hanging off nearby trees, and had Sam and Bobby curled on the floor clutching their ears in agony.

Steam and running water poured off the howling creature as it flailed and thrashed, melting before Sam's eyes, shrivelling and diminishing smaller and smaller until finally the space where it had stood was nothing but a rippling pool of vaguely blue tinted water.

Disorientated by the bizarre sight and the ringing in his ears, Sam weakly clambered to his knees, and shakily made his way over to the massive snowdrift, stumbling without a thought through the icy pool of water that had once been their nemesis.

"Bobby?"

He called out, worried that he couldn't see the older man.

"BOBBY?"

Bobby appeared, to Sam's relief, crusted with snow and peering, prairie-dog-like, over the roof of the Impala, pale-faced and shaking. He blinked as stray snowflakes fluttered down his face.

"W-what the hell was that?"

xxxxx

Sam didn't hear him. He was already breaking into the vast mound of snow under which Dean was trapped, tearing at it with his bare hands. There were no indications of movement, no sound from under the huge drift, and Sam was under no illusions as to the urgency of his task.

"Dean," he yelled; "hold on dude, I'm gettin' you out."

As he dug, Sam became aware that the wind had dropped. The day was now as still and soundless as a spring morning; still enough for him to hear the crunch of boots on melting snow behind him as Bobby joined him in his frantic work.

"Dean, talk to me man; c'mon let me know you're okay …" it was a despairing chant that drove Sam's desperate work, anaesthetising the biting pain of the ice and snow against his skin.

Melting snow from the trees above their heads rained down over them; rivulets of meltwater running over the Impala's half buried hood, pooling around her tyres and the feet of the men who continued to dig relentlessly through the massive snowdrift in front of them. As they worked, they could feel the snow growing softer and wetter, sliding slickly across the Impala's sleek bodywork, forcing them to scoop, rather than dig it out.

Despite their exhaustion, the chill of their soaked bodies, aching backs and their freezing hands, the two men worked tirelessly, calling Dean's name and hoping against despairing hope that they weren't too late in reaching him

Suddenly the rapidly melting drift jolted from within, and a soaked, freezing hand burst up through its liquid surface, to clutch his brother's own raw, ice-burned hand.

xxxxx

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

A CHILL IN THE AIR

Chapter 11

xxxxx

Sam reached out and grasped the hand; like his own it was soaking wet and as cold as ice, but the stiff, grey fingers curled around his wrist in a desperately grateful, bone-crushing grip.

"Dean," Sam gasped, looking across at Bobby who crouched beside him, a quietly supportive presence soaked through with melting snow and shivering miserably, as continued to plough through the slushy, melting snow with his bare hands.

It took only seconds for them to scoop away enough of the icy slush to enable Sam to tug Dean upwards by the arm, half pulling, half lifting him from the sucking icy cold soup that held him fast.

Soaked through to the skin, Dean slumped in Sam's arms, sinking on boneless legs and trembling as he gasped, coughing wetly into Sam's shoulder.

"Sa-am … w'appened? … s'just … di-diggin' …"

"Hey, save your breath, dude," Sam muttered reassurances as he slapped Dean's back in response to the ragged wet choking borne of near-drowning under the wet snow; "nothing' to say; s'all over now."

Bobby smiled as he watched the reconciliation. His boys were both safe; for a moment he was able to forget how cold and wet and thoroughly uncomfortable he was.

xxxxx

The huge drift was all but gone now, gushing away in a silvery ribbon of meltwater that splashed around the feet of the three men, becoming a torrent as more and more melted ice and snow poured down the hillsides, raining off the bare tree canopies and running down the contours of the Impala's newly-revealed bodywork like veins of liquid crystal. The chilling monochrome of snow and ice was gradually being replaced by the emerging colours of fresh new grass; soft, fat buds exploding all over bare branches and the tiny heads of bluebells and daisies which peeked through the softening soil, bleary from their early awakening.

As Dean's harsh coughing gradually calmed into deep gulping breaths, Sam realised that he could hear the piping trill of birdsong; he realised that the bitter sting of winter had been replaced by a mild breeze which carried the loamy scents of newborn grass and the fragrance of spring flowers.

He also realised that he, Dean and Bobby were all standing there like three spare parts, all dripping wet and, despite the jaw-droppingly rapid thaw, freezing cold.

"C'mon Dean, let's get warmed up," he coaxed, eliciting a nod of agreement from Dean. He glanced back at Bobby, who had seemingly read his mind and already stood, holding open the Impala's door. Climbing inside, Bobby fired up her engine and cranked her heating up to full as Sam rummaged through the duffels to excavate a bundle of towels liberated from their recent motel stays, and helped Dean to slip out of his soaked T shirt. Together Sam and Bobby overcame their own shivering to wrap the largest of the towels around Dean's icy shoulders before dividing the remaining towels between themselves.

The three towel-wrapped figures sat in Impala, relishing her soothing heat as it massaged the icy stiffness from their bones, and stared in bemused silence through her windows out at the verdant springtime that was unrolling like a carpet around them.

Bobby leaned on the Impala's steering wheel and opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. There was nothing he could say; what do you say when Winter thaws and Spring - well - springs in the time it takes to eat a taco? In the end, he settled for saying the only thing that could make sense to him.

"You boys okay, back there?"

Watching a fat, sleek rabbit lope casually past the parked car, Sam felt Dean subside heavily into him. "Yeah;" he replied, hesitating around a yawn, "we're both warmin' up nicely," he added; "I think Dean's fallen asleep … well, unless he's started snoring when he's awake."

Bobby grinned; "I'm not surprised, after everything that's gone on; who knows what ungodly time this morning that idjit was out in all that snow and ice crap fixin' the car!"

It wasn't long before a combination of the Impala's comforting warmth and the relaxation after their ordeal began to drag Sam's eyelids closed too, and he gradually sunk into his own rest.

xxxxx

When Sam eventually opened his eyes, it was to the soothing thrum of the Impala's engine. Sitting in the driver's seat as she powered effortlessly along, Bobby noticed the movement behind him through the rear-view mirror.

"Hey there Dozy, how nice of you to join me."

Sam rubbed his eyes; "uh, sorry, musta jus' dropped off … where we goin?"

Bobby shrugged. "Jus' headin south," he replied absently; "you an' sleepin' beauty there were gonna go down to Florida for his birthday. Seein' as that's tomorrow, I guessed I could give you a head start – ya might only be a coupla days late."

"Yeah; great idea Bobby," Sam yawned, his eyes still flicking across to Dean, burrowed into the corner of the Impala's seat, still deeply asleep.

"'Course it was," scolded Bobby; "they're the only kind I have!"

Sitting back, Sam folded his arms and smiled as he watched banks of daffodils and primroses sway and nod in the Impala's wake.

xxxxx

The following morning saw the brothers sitting in a fresh and cheerful diner attached to an equally agreeable Philadelphia motel that Bobby had managed to find on their journey. The older man had mysteriously disappeared early that morning; 'things to sort out' he'd mumbled gruffly down the phone; "catch ya later."

They relaxed over breakfast as a hazy morning sunlight filtered through the sky blue curtains behind them and Sam grinned as Dean tucked voraciously into the biggest slice of apple pie he'd ever seen.

"Hey, mind your fingers dude," he chuckled as Dean snarfed down a generous slab of golden pastry.

Dean scarcely looked up; "s'my birthday," he snorted; "m'allowed to have pie for breakfast on my birthday!"

"I guess so," Sam looked down and sighed; he had to admit, his bowl of muesli looked pretty paltry by comparison.

As he looked up again he spied, over Dean's shoulder a fellow patron opening a newspaper; it's doom-laden headline screamed ... 'UNPRECEDENTED EARLY THAW ACROSS NEW ENGLAND PROMPTS GLOBAL WARMING FEARS.' Stifling a smile, Sam was suddenly glad he'd never have to explain that one away.

There was a deep and breathy sigh of pure unadulterated bliss, as Dean laid down his fork. He looked sublimely happy and contented; a look Sam saw all-too rarely on Dean's face, he couldn't help but reflect with a pang of regret.

Then the moment was ruined by a loud burp as Dean slumped back in his chair rubbing his belly.

"Sammy, that was awesome!"

"Was that a hint?" Sam asked, his own face brightening in response to Dean's infectious grin.

"Well, if you insist," Dean licked his fingers; "it is my birthday, after all ... did I mention it was my birthday?"

"Once or twice," snorted Sam, beckoning across the room to the waitress for another slice of pie.

xxxxx

They both heard a tinkle as the door opened behind them and Bobby marched into the diner carrying a colourful plastic bag, gesturing cheerfully across to the waitress for a coffee.

"Hey Bobby, where you been?" Dean muttered as he drained his own coffee.

"Like I said, jus' sortin' out some stuff," Bobby answered evasively and deposited the mysterious bag in front of Dean.

"Happy birthday, idjit."

Dean's eyes flickered excitedly between the bag and the second helping of pie that a sweetly pretty waitress placed on the table in front of him with a welcoming saccharine smile.

Eagerly grabbing the bag, Dean yanked it open without hesitation and fished around, pulling out two eye-wateringly colourful hawaiian shirts that had clearly been designed by someone enjoying the mother of all LSD trips.

"Wow Bobby, thanks; they're ... uh … spectacular!"

"You're welcome," chuckled Bobby; "figured you might want something' light cos' you said you were goin' on down to Florida."

"Ah well," Sam mumbled awkwardly; "we were talkin' about that this morning. We were gonna go for Dean's birthday, but seein' as we were held up by, uh, unforeseen circumstances …"

"Yeah, unforeseen blue faerie douchewad circumstances," Dean interrupted; wiping the back of a hand across his sugar-coated lips. "'An' we're down to our last card," he added; "couldn't afford much, so we'd be driving all that way jus' to sit in another crummy motel miles from anywhere interesting, jus' for the sake of going somewhere sunny for my birthday."

"So it all seemed a bit pointless, really," Sam finished up with a shrug.

"It'd be nice though," Bobby suggested.

"Yeah, nice," Dean grunted, "but not practical; stupid idea," he added, shovelling in another forkful of steaming apple chunks.

"So, yeah, we're not gonna bother now," Sam finished, colouring slightly with embarassment as he looked at the outrageous-verging-on-hideous shirts that Bobby had bought them.

"Oh well, that's a shame," Bobby sighed quietly.

"Well, I'm sure we can still wear the shirts," Dean added, not wanting to appear ungrateful; "they'd look awesome at, uh, a … um …" he shot a wide-eyed glance across at Sam for help.

"… a - a barbecue," Sam blurted out helplessly, trying to think back to the last time the brothers actually attended a barbecue, which had to have been sometime around, never, give or take a few months.

Bobby sniggered as he watched the brothers squirm; "you did say at a barbecue - not ON a barbecue?"

The Winchesters gave up their ingratiating pretence and dissolved into laughter.

"Still, it's a shame though," Bobby sighed, shaking his head in amusement; "I guess you won't be needing this now," he added, reaching into his pocket and drawing out an envelope.

"What's that?" Two pairs of enquiring eyes and a bulging mouthful of chewed apple pie looked up at him.

"Your other present," replied Bobby, offering the envelope to Dean.

Dean's eyes lit up; "gimme gimme," grabby hands reached out toward the mysterious little envelope. Ripping it open, he tipped the contents into the palm of his hand and stared at it.

One ordinary little silver key.

Dean looked up at Bobby; his face asked the question.

"I got a - let's say - contact," Bobby explained; "he's got a beachfront vacation apartment in Palm Beach. Owes me a favour."

The brothers stared open-mouthed at the key which lay in Dean's hand.

"So this is …" Sam looked up at Bobby.

"Yeah, but seeing as you're not going," Bobby reached across the table for the key; "I guess I'd better let him have it back …"

Dean snatched the key away, clutching it to his chest.

"Beachfront apartment, Palm Beach?" Dean's head swivelled between his two companions; "we're going!"

Sam grinned, "you comin' Bobby?"

"Nah, got stuff I gotta deal with," smiled Bobby, "an' anyway, you don't want me crampin' your style."

They both paused, looking around at Dean who had already pulled on one of the shirts and was busy posing, admiring himself in the window, despite the fact it almost reached his knees.

"Hey, Sasquatch, I think this one's yours."

Sam shook his head with a smile; "you sure Bobby? We'd like you to come."

"Nah," Bobby grinned; "you boys go enjoy yourself, have fun, get a suntan, get drunk; you need the break. It'll do you good to get a bit of sun on your backs."

Dean rolled the key in his hand; "thanks Bobby; wow, I don' know what to say. This is the best birthday ever!"

Bobby smiled; "and d'y know what the best thing of all is?"

The Winchesters answered in unison; "what's that?"

Bobby's smile widened.

"There ain't gonna be no goddamn snow!"

xxxxx

end


End file.
